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UNIY6RS1TY  Of  CALlfORNlA 
LIBRARY       c 


C5C  LIBRIS 


I**  fe*  SONGS  ABOUT  LIFE 
LOVE  AND  DEATH  •«*  •*•»  ** 
BY  ANNE  REEVE  ALDRICH 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK          MDCCCXCIII 


Copyright,  1892,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


'   NOTE 

Miss  Aid-rich  had  arranged  for  the  publication  of  the  present 
collection  of  her  mat 'urer  poems  before  the  beginning  of  an 
illness  that  terminated  fatally  June  twenty-eighth  last. 
With  a  single  exception  the  volume  remains  as  she  left 
it  in  her  publishers''  hands.  This  is  the  poem  entitled 
"Death  at  Daybreak"  dictated  dtiring  her  illness  when 
she  was  too  weak  to  hold  the  pen,  and  not  long  before  she 
herself  died — at  the  age  of  twenty -six — just  before  dawn. 
The  title  of  the  volume  is  her  own,  though  she  had  ex 
pressed  herself  not  wholly  satisfied  with  it  and  had  siig- 
gested  another.  It  has  been  retained,  however,  not  only 
because  it  was  hers,  but  because  of  its  evident  felicity  in 
expressing  the  essential  unity  of  what  really  is  a  cycle  of 
spiritually  connected  lyrics  rather  than  a  collection  of  un 
related  poems.  As  she  said,  in  speaking  of  them,  they  are 
"chiefly  in  a  minor  key"  and,  whatever  their  special  sub 
jects,  are  expressions  of  closely  allied  moods. 


396042 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  SONG  ABOUT  SINGING i 

MY  GUERDON 2 

Music  OF  HUNGARY 3 

A  SUMMER  MORNING 5 

To  A  NIGHTINGALE 7 

A  YEAR 8 

A  WAYSIDE  CALVARY 9 

THE  PRAYER  OF  DOLORES 10 

AFTER 12 

MY  PSALM  OF  THANKSGIVING 13 

IN  MEMORY  OF  FATHER  DAMIEN 14 

MY  PERSIAN  PRAYER-RUG 15 

A  STUDY 17 

A  PHOTOGRAPH  OF  THE  SQUARE 19 

WRITTEN  BENEATH  A  CRUCIFIX 23 

A  PRAYER 24 

ART 25 

DAYS  AND  NIGHTS 27 

ROYALTY 28 

AN  EXPERIENCE 29 

THE  PRAYER  OF  OCEAN 30 

THE  MEANING -  31 


iv  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FRATERNITY 32 

FRANCESCA  AND  PAOLO 33 

A  CROWNED  POET 34 

AGONY 35 

A  PLEA 36 

ART  AND  LOVE 38 

MORNING  :  AN  IMPRESSION 39 

A  WORD  TO  MY  HEART 4° 

INSOMNIA 41 

A  RHYME  OF  THE  POTTER 42 

A  WORD  AT  PARTING 43 

Two  LOST  HEROES 44 

A  MEDIEVAL  DEATH-BED        .     . 45 

CRITICISM 49 

REFUGE 5° 

DESOLATION        51 

RESOLVE 52 

CHEATED 53 

A  WOMAN'S  ADIEU 54 

SEE-SAW        56 

A  MOTHER'S  SONG *     .  57 

THE  FLIGHT 5s 

ALLEGIANCE 59 

UNDERNEATH 60 

IMPOSSIBILITY 61 

AN  EXPLANATION 62 

BLACK  MAGIC 63 

A  SECRET 64 


CONTENTS  v 

PAGE 

A  MADMAN 5- 

SUPPLICATION 55 

A  SONG  OF  SORROW 67 

To  A  NUN 58 

IN  PRAISE  OF  LIFE 69 

A  PRISONER ^0 

THE  ELEVENTH  HOUR        72 

A  SEASON  REMEMBERED 73 

HOMESICKNESS 74 

LET  THE  DREAM  Go 75 

DISILLUSION 75 

AT  A  POET'S  FUNERAL 77 

LAST  WORDS 79 

RECOLLECTION 81 

OF  LATE g2 

SUPPOSE g,, 

A  TRUTHFUL  SONG  OF  AGE 84 

APRIL — AND  DYING g5 

LIVES 87 

FANNY 88 

AN  OLD  REFRAIN 90 

LOVE,  THE  WANDERER 9l 

SOUVENIRS 93 

HARKING  BACKWARD 94 

RELICS 95 

LOVE  AND  LORE 97 

A  SILENT  EPISODE 98 

THE  RING 101 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  SONG  OF  FAITHFUL  LOVE I03 

JANE '  .  '  104 

MODERN  DESPAIR Ic8 

THE  STORY  OF  A  SONG I09 

A  NINETEENTH-CENTURY  REMEDY no 

A  REWARD  OFFERED II2 

A  MODERN  ENCHANTRESS u^ 

DETHRONED jj, 

A  MIDNIGHT  RIDE u^ 

A  WAYSIDE  WARNING n6 

AN  EARLY  LOVE  REMEMBERED n7 

A  LITTLE  STORY II9 

A  SONG  AT  TWILIGHT I22 

A  CHILD'S  QUESTIONS I24 

To  MY  DEAREST I2^ 

THE  WORLD  AND  THE  POET I2; 

A  LITTLE  PARABLE I2g 

SONG I29 

AT  NIGHT-TIME T^0 

DEATH  AT  DAYBREAK x^j 

THE  ETERNAL  JUSTICE       I2 


SONGS    ABOUT    LIFE 
LOVE    AND    DEATH 


A   SONG   ABOUT   SINGING 

O  nightingale,  the  poet's  bird, 
A  kinsman  dear  thou  art, 

Who  never  sings  so  well  as  when 
The  rose-thorns  bruise  his  heart. 

But  since  thy  agony  can  make 
A  listening  world  so  blest, 

Be  sure  it  cares  but  little  for 
Thy  wounded,  bleeding  breast! 


MY   GUERDON 

I  stood  where  gifts  were   showered    on   men   from 

Heaven, 

And  some  had  honors  and  the  joy  thereof; 
And  some  received  with  solemn,  radiant  faces 
The  gift  of  love. 

The  green  I  saw  of  bay-leaves,  and  of  laurel, 

Of  gold  the  gleam. 

A  voice  spoke  to  me,  standing  empty-handed, 
"For  thee — a  dream." 

Forbear  to  pity,  ye  who  richly  laden 

Forth  from  the  place  of  Heaven's  bounty  went; 
Who  marvel  that  I  smile,  my  hands  still  empty  — 
I  am  content. 

Ye  cannot  guess  how  dowered  beyond  the  measure 

Of  your  receiving  to  myself  I  seem. 
Lonely  and  cold,  I  yet  pass  on  enraptured-— 
I  have  my  dream. 


MUSIC   OF   HUNGARY 

(A  ANTON  DVORAK) 

My  body  answers  you,  my  blood 
Leaps  at  your  maddening,  piercing  call. 
The  fierce  notes  startle,  and  the  veil 
Of  this  dull  present  seems  to  fall. 

My  soul  responds  to  that  long  cry ; 

It  wants  its  country,  Hungary  ! 

Not  mine  by  birth.     Yet  have  I  not 
Some  strain  of  that  old  Magyar  race  ? 
Else  why  the  secret  stir  of  sense 
At  sight  of  swarthy  Tzigane  face, 

That  warns  me :  "  Lo,  thy  kinsmen  nigh." 
All  's  dear  that  tastes  of  Hungary. 


MUSIC   OF  HUNGARY 

Once  more,  O  let  me  hear  once  more 
The  passion  and  barbaric  rage ! 
Let  me  forget  my  exile  here 
In  this  mild  land,  in  this  mild  age; 
Once  more  that  unrestrained  wild  cry 
That  takes  me  to  my  Hungary  ! 


They  listen  with  approving  smile, 
But  I,  O  God,  I  want  my  home ! 
I  want  the  Tzigane  tongue,  the  dance, 
The  nights  in  tents,  the  days  to  roam. 
O  music,  O  fierce  life  and  free, 
God  made  my  soul  for  Hungary ! 


A   SUMMER    MORNING 

The  city  night  holds  no  such  ghastly  hour 
As  that  of  city  dawn,  when  in  the  trees 
The  sparrows  quarrel,  and  the  pallid  light 
Is  ushered  in  by  waves  of  fetid  breeze. 


The  ghosts  that  filled  a  burning,  sleepless  night 
Draw  closer  in  this  livid  birth  of  day, 
To  fix  their  dreadful  faces  on  my  mind 
Before  the  August  sun  melts  them  away. 


With  brain  exhausted  and  with  body  worn, 
And  soul  too  dulled  by  pain  to  frame  a  prayer, 
I  vaguely  long  for  some  fresh,  dewy  land, 
Yet,  ah,  my  ghosts  would  follow  even  there ! 

5 


A   SUMMER  MORNING 

Beneath  my  window  sleep  the  long  gray  streets, 
Still  in  the  heated  heaven  shines  one  star. 
The  ashen  light  grows  whiter  in  its  strength, 
And,  though  still  haunted,  O,  to  be  afar, 

Where  morning  mists  are  brooding  on  some  lake, 
Or  on  a  cool  and  silvered  stretch  of  lawn ! 
— An  outcast  in  the  street  below  lifts  up  her  face, 
The  incarnation  of  this  city  dawn. 


TO   A   NIGHTINGALE 

Sing  for  me,  O  my  friend, 

My  music  will  not  come, 
For  Love  that  urges  thee  to  sing 

Has  made  me  dumb. 

Sing  for  us  both,  O  friend, 

How  heavenly-sweet  this  night, 
How  white  the  land  beneath  the  moon, 

How  deep,  Delight! 

- 

Sing  for  me,  O  my  friend. 

Thy  song  from  branch  above 
Shall  add  one  rapture  more  to  night, 

One  more  to  Love ! 


A  YEAR 

O  the  brown  dead  sedge,  and  the  inlet's  ice, 
And  the  leaning  sky's  chill  gray, 

And  on  sea  and  shore  the  Autumn, 
And  in  heart  and  soul  the  May! 

O  the  green  marsh- grass,  and  the  inlet's  blue, 

And  the  sky  a  turquoise  scroll, 
And  on  sea  and  shore  the  Summer, 

And  Autumn  in  heart  and  soul! 


A   WAYSIDE    CALVARY 

Its  shadow  makes  a  sheltered  place 
All  through  the  burning  summer  day. 

There  at  the  foot,  secure  from  sun, 
The  ragged  little  children  play. 

And  in  the  winter  huddled  birds 

Take  refuge  from  the  windward  side, 

When  driving  snows  make  bleak  the  plain, 
And  herald  holy  Christmas-tide. 

The  bleeding  Christ  that  hangs  above 
To  bid  the  passer  stop  and  pray, 

Smiles  through  his  bitter  agony 

On  such  small,  tender  things  as  they! 


THE   PRAYER   OF   DOLORES 

MADRID,  1888 

Beneath  the  grass,  I  hear  them  say, 

Live  loathsome  things  that  hate  the  day, — 

Strange  crawling  shapes  with  blinded  eyes, 

Whose  very  image  terrifies. 

I  dread  not  these:  make  deep  my  bed 

With  good  black  mold  round  heart  and  head. 

But  oh!  the  fear  a  Thought  may  creep 

Down  from  the  world  to  where  I  sleep, 

Pierce  through  the  earth  to  heart  and  brain 

And  coil  there,  in  its  home  again! 

Father,  thou  hast  the  good  God's  ear, — 

And  when  priests  speak  He  bends  to  hear, — 

Say,  "  Lord,  this  woman  of  Madrid 

Begs,  when  herself  in  earth  is  hid, 


THE  PRAYER   OF  DOLORES  n 

Her  soul's  guilt  paid  for,  grain  by  grain, 

In  throes  of  purgatorial  pain, 

That  Thou  her  soul  wouldst  clean  destroy; 

She  hath  no  wish  for  heavenly  joy, 

But  just  to  be  dissolved  to  Naught, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  any  thought. 

Some  sinners  dare  to  beg  for  bliss, 

I  know  my  place,  and  ask  but  this: 

That  He,  who  made  will  then  unmake 

My  soul,  for  His  sweet  mercy's  sake!" 


AFTER 

Well,  my  heart,  we  have  been  happy; 

Let  us  snatch  that  from  the  wreck  of  things. 

But  when  the  forest  is  choked  with  ashes, 

While  still  the  flame  round  its  old  nest  flashes, 

'T  is  a  brave  bird  sits  on  a  charred  limb  and  sings ! 

Well,  my  heart,  we  have  been  happy; 
Doubtless  we  find  another  nest. 
But,  though  it  be  softer,  one  still  remembers, 
And  dearer  the  ruin  of  blackened  embers 
Than  all  the  peace  of  a  later  rest. 


MY   PSALM   OF   THANKSGIVING 

That  I  am  one  day  nearer  to  the  rest 
Of  my  small,  narrow  bed  beneath  the  sod, 
Where  I  shall  sleep,  haply  forgetting  much, 
I  thank  Thee,  God. 

That  though  the  thorns  are  keen  and  thickly  set 
Along  the  path  remaining  to  be  trod, 
My  feet  are  travel-hardened  to  their  wounds, 
I  thank  Thee,  God. 

That  in  the  future  there  can  be  for  me 
No  bitterer  scourgings  of  Thy  heavy  rod 
Than  I  have  borne  with  patience  in  the  past, 
I  thank  Thee,  God. 

That  this  sad  road  at  least  must  have  an  end 
Toward  which  we  weary  travelers  ceaseless  plod,- 
Oh,  most  of  all,  that  this  sad  road  must  end, — 
I  thank  Thee,  God! 
13 


IN   MEMORY   OF   FATHER   DAMIEN 

More  royal  than  the  miniver  of  kings 

The  robe  of  tortured  flesh  that  clothed  his   soul,- 
The  martyr,  reaching  out  an  eager  hand 

To  clasp  the  cup  of  bitterness  and  dole. 

And  lo  !  we  see  through  tears  the  signs  divine 
Of  sainthood  that  the  ancient  tales  repeat : 

Stigmata  were  the  loathsome  ulcer- wounds 
Disease  had  marked  in  holy  hands  and  feet! 


MY   PERSIAN   PRAYER-RUG 

Made  smooth  some  centuries  ago 

By  praying  Eastern  devotees, 
Blurred  by  those  dusky  naked  feet, 

And  somewhat  worn  by  shuffling  knees, 
In  Ispahan, 

It  lies  upon  my  modern  floor, 

And  no  one  prays  there  any  more. 

It  never  felt  the  worldly  tread 

Of  smart  betimes,  high-heeled  and  red, 
In  Ispahan. 

And  no  one  prays  there  now,  I  said  ? 

Ah  well,  that  was  a  hasty  word. 
Once,  with  my  face  upon  its  woof, 

A  fiercer  prayer  it  never  heard 
In  Ispahan. 


16  MY  PERSIAN  PRA  YER-RUG 

But  still  I  live  who  prayed  that  night 

That  death  might  come  ere  came  the  light. 

Did  any  soul  in  black  despair 

Breathe,  kneeling  here,  that  reckless  prayer 
In  Ispahan  ? 

Perhaps.    I  trust  that  Heaven  lent 

A  kinder  ear  than  late  to  me, 
If  some  brown  ancient,  weeping,  begged 

To  have  his  suffering  soul  set  free 
In  Ispahan. 

I  fancy  I  shall  like  to  meet 

The  dead  who  prayed  here,  and  whose  feet 
Once  made  this  rich  old  carpet  frayed. 

Peace  to  your  souls,  my  friends,  who  prayed 
In  Ispahan! 


A  STUDY 

First,  Color:  hangings  of  the  vital  hue 
Of  life-blood,  soft  to  sight  the  warm,  wet  red, 
Broidered  with  lordly  forms  in  varied  silks 
And  curiously  wrought  with  golden  thread; 
The  warmth  of  living  color  deep  and  bright 
To  sweetly  satisfy  the  hungry  sight. 

Next,  Fragrance :  incense-odors  of  the  East 
Mixed  with  these  roses  dying  at  our  feet, 
And  irritating  scent  of  iris-flowers, 
And  heliotropes'  soft  smell,  voluptuous-sweet, 
Mixed  with  some  poppies'  bitter,  drowsy  breath 
To  hint  that  Pleasure  falls  asleep  in  Death. 


18  A   STUDY 

And  Music :  pangs  of  sharp  and  dissonant  cries, 
Assuaged  by  murmuring  notes  of  deep  content, 
And  poignant  calls,  and  amorous,  low  replies, 
And  agony,  and  languors  strangely  blent, 
And  one  seductive  phrase  to  do  its  part, 
Ever  recurring,  torn  from   Music's  heart. 

Then  Love:  now  end,  my  ballad,  with  this  name, 
Ultimate  sweetness  of  these  ministering  things; 
For  lo,  my  gaze  is  turned  upon  the  ground, 
And  lo,  my  mouth,  made  mute,  no  longer  sings. 
Words  for  these  prelude-notes, — but  ah,  no  word 
For  this  most  rapturous  concluding  chord! 


A   PHOTOGRAPH   OF  THE   SQUARE 

Moonlight  for  other  people,  but  for  us,  if  you  please, 

no  moonlight. 
For  us,  the   electric   lights  in  the   very  heart  of  the 

city. 
For   us    the    Square,    the   heart   of   life    (you   know 

where  the  Square  is)  — 
The  long  veins  of  light  that  are  streets  run  this  way 

and  that  way  out  of  it. 
They  carry  off  part   of  the  blood,  and  yet  the  heart 

seems  full  of  it. 
Throbbing,  pulsing,  one  drop  is  a   courtesan,   one   a 

great  lady. 
Here   in   the   Square    they   mix;    everything   here    is 

confluent ; 


20  A   PHOTOGRAPH  OF  THE  SQUARE 

See  the  crush  of  colors  through  the  bright  cafe  windows 

yonder ; 
See   the   laughter  and  food,  the   faces,  the   pink-and- 

white  women; 
Then  the   gamut   of  passions  struck   out   of  different 

faces 
Here  in  the  blur  of  the  streets,  as  the  drops  of  blood 

course  by  you 
In  the  white   electric  glare   or   the  yellow  flood   from 

the  street-lamps. 

Oh-he!  for  the  glorious  life  at  night! 

For  this  pushing  tide  of  the  human. 
What  are  the  fields  and  streams 

To  living  man  and  woman  ? 

Oh-he  !    How  I  love  this  rush  of  life, 

To  bathe  in  it,  passing  by ; 
The  city  to  live  and  love  in, 

The  country  to  sleep  and  die ! 

No,  I  will  stand  here  yet;  no,  do  not  make  me  go 
with  you, — 

Here  I  gain  life  and  strength  from  the  fierce  mag 
netic  current. 


A  PHOTOGRAPH  OF  THE  SQUARE  21 

Yes,  half  down   the  block,  if  you  say  you  will  bring 

me  back  here. 
Love,  let  me  linger  yet;    be   good  to   me,   love,  be 

patient ! 
— Just  half  a  block  away,  and  yet  the  gray  gloom  and 

the  houses, 
Frowning  gloomily  down,  and  the  click  of  our  feet  on 

the  pavement 
Make  it  seem  lonely;  and  yes, — my  lips,  love,  yes, — 

if  you  want  them  — 
What  a  kiss,  strange  and  short,  here  in  the  street,  in 

the  city! 
I  to  be   kissed   like   this,  by  the  flaring  flame  of  a 

street-lamp ! 

What  if  a  passer — then,  your  face,  too,  felt  so  chilly 
Touching  mine  in  this  air;  but  oh — and  alas! — none 

the  less,  love, 
No    such   wonderful    kiss    shall   we   ever   again   give 

each  other. 
Sweetened   by  just    the    thought    of    its    maddening 

briefness  and  folly, 

No  one  can  understand  but  only  we  two  what  the  savor, 
Lent  it  by  strangeness  and  night,  and  the  stir  of  the 

streets  just  beyond  us. 


22  A   PHOTOGRAPH  OF  THE  SQUARE 

Oh,  take  me  back! — but  that  kiss,  to  think  we  can 

never  re-live   it! 
One  of  those  wonderful  moments  not  to  come  twice 

in  a  lifetime. 
We  have  the  Square  to  thank  for  it:  it  was  conceived 

over  yonder. 
Now  take  me   back  to  forget  what  you  and  I  could 

not  live  over 
If  we  should  live  till  these  streets  and  the  city   are 

crumbled  to  ruin, 
Wholly    forgotten    and   past,    a    dream   of  the    dead 

brutal  ages. 


WRITTEN   BENEATH   A   CRUCIFIX 

He  hath  not  guessed  Christ's  agony, 
He  hath  not  dreamed  his  bitterest  woe, 

Who  hath  not  worn  the  crown  of  love 
And  felt  the  crown  of  anguish  so. 

Ah,  not  the  torments  of  the  cross, 

Or  nails  that  pierced,  or  thirst  that  burned, 

Heightened  the  kingly  Victim's  pain, 

But  grief  of  griefs, —  His  love  was  spurned! 


A   PRAYER 

A  morrow  must  come  on 
When  I  shall  wake  to  weep ; 

But  just  for  some  short  hours, 
God,  give  me  sleep! 

I  ask  not  hope's  return; 

As  I  have  sowed  I  reap. 
Grief  must  awake  with  dawn, — 

Yet,  oh,  to  sleep! 

No  dreams,  dear  God,  no  dreams 
Mere  slumber,  dull  and  deep, 

Such  as  thou  givest  brutes, — 
Sleep,  only  sleep! 


ART 

See !     This  is  how  she  standeth,- 
A  woman,  calm  and  ageless, 
Clad  only  in  a  garment 

Of  pure  and  spotless  flesh; 
While  round  her  shrine  forever 
Circle  the  eager  faces 
Of  those  who  serve  her  gladly, 

Whose  souls  she  hath  in  mesh. 

Of  gold  in  grain  or  nugget, 
Of  fruits  and  dewy  blossoms, 
Of  lambs  upon  her  altars 

She  hath  no  joy  or  heed. 
She  only  asketh  heart-blood 
Wrung  out  in  toil  and  anguish: 
Its  drops  of  shining  crimson 

Are  sweet  to  her  indeed. 
25 


26  ART 

Yet  see  the  upturned  faces ! 
Their  lips  are  dry  with  fasting, 
Their  cheeks  are  gray  and  sunken, — 

Yet,  ah,  the  rapturous  eyes! 
They  ask  no  joy  but  toiling, 
They  ask  no  hope  but  serving, 
And  with  their  life-blood  furnish 

Her  pleasing  sacrifice. 

No  golden  world-fruit  tempts  them; 
Love  bares  her  rosy  bosom, 
And  smiles  between  her  tresses 

Vainly  on  such  as  these. 
The  youths  who  take  her  service 
Pledge  to  a  jealous  goddess, 
Who  will  have  naught  but  labor, 

And  labor  on  their  knees. 

She  giveth  this  for  guerdon : 
Age  that  descends  in  youth-time, 
Lit  by  one  star's  faint  shining 

That  struggles  through  the  gloom. 
A  name  in  ink  that  fadeth 
Writ  on  Fame's  musty  pages, 
Mouthed  by  the  fools  and  happy, 

And  scrawled  upon  a  tomb. 


DAYS   AND    NIGHTS 

Higher  the  daily  hours  of  anguish  rise, 
And  mount  about  me  as  the  swelling  deep, 
Till  past  my  mouth  and  eyes  their  moments  flow, 
And  I  am  drowned  in  sleep. 

But  soon  the  tide  of  night  begins  to  ebb; 
Chained  on  the  barren  shore  of  dawn  I  lie, 
Again  to  hear  the  day's  slow-rising  flood, 
Again  to  live  and  die. 


ROYALTY 

Pity  the  king !    The  state  must  see  him  born, 
And  at  the  end  the  state  must  see  him  die; 
And  scarce  an  hour  is  free  of  prying  eyes, 
From  royal  birth  to  royal  agony. 
Yet  at  such  life  the  king  must  make  no  moan 
He  is  his  people's,  he  is  not  his  own. 

Pity  the  poet :  if  he  hath  a  woe 

Or  joy,  't  is  only  sent  him  that  he  may 

Reveal  its  depth  to  all  men  in  a  song ; 

Nor  hide  it  like  all  other  men,  and, 

In  pain  or  bliss,  his  is  the  second  place: 

The  first  belongs  to  all  his  waiting  race. 


AN    EXPERIENCE 

Oh,  if  I  could  but  compass  it ! 

If  I  could  go  away 
And  gain,  in  that  strange  northern  land, 

Six  months  of  ceaseless  day ! 

There,  starting  from  these  awful  dreams 

To  find  it  still  was  light, 
Perhaps  I  might  forget,  in  time, 

The  horrors  of  that  night ! 


THE   PRAYER   OF   OCEAN 

The  rivers  all  flow  down  unto  the  sea; 

And  yet  the  yearning  Ocean  moans  for  more, 
To  quench  its  deep,  insatiable  thirst. 

It  sends  its  cry  to  God  along  the  shore: 
"  Drive  thou  some  mighty  river   through  the  land, 
That,  drinking,  I  lie  quiet  on  my  strand. 

"Quench  thou,  O  God,  thy  Ocean's  bitter  thirst! 

Oh,  let  me  drink  my  fill  of  some  fresh  tide! 
I  would  not  with  complaints  make  sad  the  land 

If  this  fierce  craving  once  were  satisfied. 
I  would  stretch  out  in  sleep  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  praise  thee  with  my  silence  evermore." 


THE   MEANING 

He  that  loseth  his  life  shall  find  it. 

I  lost  my  life  in  losing  love. 

This  blurred  my  Spring  and  killed  its  dove. 

Along  my  path  the  dying  roses 

Fell,  and  disclosed  the  thorns  thereof. 

I  found  my  life  in  finding  God. 

In  ecstasy  I  kiss  the  rod; 

For  who  that  wins  the  goal  but  lightly 

Thinks  of  the  thorns  whereon  he  trod  ? 


FRATERNITY 

I  ask  not  how  thy  suffering  came, 
Or  if  by  sin,  or  if  by  shame, ' 
Or  if  by  Fate's  capricious  rulings: 
To  my  large  pity  all 's  the  same. 

Come  close  and  lean  against  a  heart 
Eaten  by  pain  and  stung  by  smart ; 
It  is  enough  if  thou  hast  suffered, — 
Brother  or  sister  then  thou  art. 

We  will  not  speak  of  what  we  know, 
Rehearse  the  pang,  nor  count  the  throe, 
Nor  ask  what  agony  admitted 
Thee  to  the  Brotherhood  of  Woe. 

But  in  our  anguish-darkened  land 
Let  us  draw  close,  and  clasp  the  hand; 
Our  whispered  password  holds  assuagement,- 
The  solemn  "Yea,  I  understand!" 


FRANCESCA   AND    PAOLO 

There  's  a  picture  on  my  wall 

Of  the  hapless,  sinful  twain, — 
Clinging  forms  that  float  embraced 

Through  a  mist  of  fiery  rain  — 
Onward  borne  in  lurid  space 

By  the  burning  winds  that  blow. 
Oft  I  fancy  in  the  night 

I  can  hear  them  whispering  low 
Each  to  each  the  secret  dear: 
"Hell  's  not  Hell,  since  thou  art  here!" 


33 


A   CROWNED   POET 

In  thy  coach  of  state 
Pass,  O  King,  along: 

He  no  envy  feels 

To  whom  God  giveth  song. 

Starving,  still  I  smile, 

Laugh  at  want  and  wrong: 
He  is  fed  and  crowned 

To  whom  God  giveth  song. 

Better  than  all  pomps 
That  to  rank  belong, — 

One  such  dream  as  his 
To  whom  God  giveth  song. 

Let  us  greet,  O  King, 

As  we  pass  along: 
He,  too,  is  a  king 

To  whom  God  giveth  song. 


34 


AGONY 

I  love  to  feel  a  bitter  throe 

Rise  to  its  fullest  height, 
Then  watch  a  conquering  anodyne 

Softly  assert  its  might. 

I  sometimes  fear  that  ill  content 

In  heaven  I  shall  remain, 
Unless  the  good  God  graciously 

Accords  to  me  my  pain. 

For  no  delight  is  half  so  sheer 
As  pangs  that  melt  in  peace; 

One  gladly  pays  in  torture's  coin 
For  pleasures  of  release. 

God  knowing  that,  this  strange  desire 
He  gave  my  heart  and  brain, 

Will  make  my  heaven  more  keen  to  me 
By  still  allowing  pain. 


35 


A   PLEA 

You  think  I  do  not  note  that  highest  peak 
In  Art's  fair  mountain-land  ?   Nay,  but  I  see, 
And  more  than  that,  half-way  along  its  height 
Run  lines  of  frozen  foot-prints  made  by  me. 

Ask  of  those  travelers  who  have  stood  upon 
Its  dizziest  height,  to  tell  you  of  the  trail 
I  left  upon  those  snows  as  far  along 
As  where  the  mists  begin  to  weave  their  veil. 

And  when  the  pilgrims  in  that  bitter  air 
See  my  faint  footsteps  where  they  pause,  then  go 
Vale-ward  again,  they  do  but  smile  and  say  : 
"Small  woman-feet!  They  could  not  tread  this  snow. 

36 


A   PLEA  37 

"She  has  returned  to  walk  in  household  ways." 
And,  passing  by  the  landmark  made  by  me, 
They  breathless  struggle  on,  and  mount  the  crest 
That  I  shall  never  reach,  and  scarce  can  see. 

But  oh,  my  heart  is  with  them !    By  the  hearth 
I  chose,  I  swear  I  might  have  mounted  still, 
And  stood  there  with  the  cloud-rack  round  my  head! 
The  power  and  strength  were  mine,  though  not  the 
will. 

So  speak  not  of  me,  comrades,  as  of  one 
Too  weak  to  win  the  summit  where  you  stand, 
And  thus  unworthy  of  your  greeting  shout 
That  echoes  down  to  this  green  pasture-land. 

But  say,  "  She  could  not  choose  :  one  power  there  is 
As  great  as  Art,  the  lord  of  our  domain ; 
And  when  Love  leadeth  down  the  mountain-path, 
A  woman's  feet  to  follow  him  are  fain. 

"  She  could  not  choose :  so  sometimes  when  we  share 
The  mystic  joys  and  pains  she  cannot  claim, 
We  will  remember  she  was  of  us  once 
And,  as  of  comrade  dead,  speak  soft  her  name." 


ART   AND   LOVE 

They  that  carried  us  away  captive  required  of  us  a  song. 

Bid  me  not  sing:  think  of  the  gifts  I  gave 
To  love  and  thee;   require  me  not  to  sing! 

They  who  crown  poets  now  must  pass  me  by: 
I  have  no  claim  to  wear  the  bays  they  bring. 

To  please  thy  mood  one  day  I  broke  my  lute, 

And  now  forever  is  my  music  mute. 

Bid  me  not  sing :  since  when  thy  mouth  met  mine, 
"  Love,  love,"  the  only  words  my  lips  can  say. 
Lost  is  the  cunning  of  my  worshipped  art; 

Among  my  peers  I  must  walk  dumb  alway. 
For  thee  I  counted  song  a  worthless  thing. 
My  heart  will  break  if  now  thou  bidst  me  sing ! 


MORNING:   AN    IMPRESSION 

Instead  of  black — brown  gloom 

In  all  the  darkened  room, 
A  struggle  of  dull  light  through  the  thick  curtain. 

A  stir,  the  natural  happiness  from  sleep, 

Forgetfulness  that  one  must  weep 
When  this  vague  shadowy  land  becomes  more  certain. 

And  then — poor,  tortured  brain, 

Thou  art  awake  again  ! 

Come,  arm  thyself  to  meet  the  awful  day, 

Thy  sweet,  brief  respite  's  done. 

Rouse  thyself,  suffering  one, 
To  bear  thy  misery  as  best  thou  may; 

To  think  the  thoughts  again 

That  madden  thee  with  pain, — 
There  's  no  escape,  oh,  thou  rebellious  brain! 


39 


A   WORD   TO    MY   HEART 

Yes,  the  days  will  still  be  dappled 

With  sweet  showers  and  gleams  of  sun, 

And  the  storms  will  not  last  forever, — 
But  my  beautiful  days  are  done. 

To  be  tired  so  soon  in  the  journey, 
With  the  race  perhaps  but  half  run ! 

To  know  while  the  Spring  yet  lingers 
That  my  beautiful  days  are  done  ! 

Ah,  my  Heart,  we  are  very  weary ; 

But  courage,  thou  suffering  one ! 
For  all  days,  sooner  or  later, 

Like  my  beautiful  days,  are  done ! 


INSOMNIA 

0  would  God  call  a. halt,  —  one  moment's  halt 
To  that  procession  marching  through  my  brain ! 

1  would  awake  in  thankful  quiet,  lie 
And  watch  the  long  defile  begin  again ; 

Would  make  no  further  dry-mouthed  moans  for  sleep 
Would  take  up  patience  in  sweet  hope's  default, 

And  mutely  bear  the  burthen  of  the  hours, — 
If  God  would  call  a  halt,  —  one  moment's  halt ! 


A   RHYME   OF   THE   POTTER 

The  potter  with  his  clay  does  what  he  will: 
Elects  one  shape  to  honor,  one  to  shame. 

So  far,  so  just;  but  for  the  fouler  shape 
The  potter,  not  the  vessel,  is  to  blame. 


A  WORD   AT   PARTING 

Hadst  thou  been  false  to  me  alone, 

I  haply  might  forgive; 
But  false  to  self,— that  baser  way,— 

And  yet  I  still  must  live! 

Hadst  thou  been  cruel  to  me  alone, 

I  haply  might  forget; 
But  cruel  to  self,— that  baser  way,— 

I  must  remember  yet! 


43 


TWO   LOST   HEROES 

And  so  Death  took  your  hero. 

How  kind  to  you  was  Fate! 

For  Death  but  crystallizes  Life, 

And  you  need  only  wait. 

Death  keeps  him,  dear,  safe  from  all   tainting  touch 
I  in  your  place  could  scarcely  weep  so  much. 

For  I,  too,  lost  my  hero. 

Would  God  it  were  by  death! 
Would  God  that  he  were  sainted, 
That  I  might  spend  my  breath 
In  praying  Heaven  to  make  my  deeds  so  sweet 
That  he  might  welcome  me  when  we  should  meet! 

Alas,  alas,  my  hero! 

How  often  we  bow  down, 
Deceived,  to  crown  a  coward  king 

And  deify  a  clown! 

Pass  on ;  compared  to  me  you  know  not  grief. 
You  have  lost  him,  but  I  have  lost  Belief! 


A   MEDIAEVAL   DEATH-BED 

O  brother,  little  brother, 

A  charge  I  have  for  thee 
To  keep  when  I  in  three  days'  time 

Am  laid  'neath  kirk-yard  tree. 

Now  fetch  my  mass-book  from  the  shelf; 

This  flower,  its  leaves  between, 
Was  not  so  blue  by  half  that  noon 

As  were  his  bonny  een. 

But  pressed  'twixt  holy  psalm  and  prayer 
In  scarce  a  twelvemonth's  space, 

They  Ve  turned  to  nigh  as  pale  a  hue 
As  hath  thy  sister's  face. 

Go  take  this  mass-book  in  thy  hand, 

Thy  dirk-knife  at  thy  side, 
And  take  thy  trusty  hound  with  thee, 

And  seek  the  Lord  of  Clyde, 


45 


46  A   MEDIAEVAL  DEATH-BED 

Seek  for  him  not  in  his  own  halls, 

But  go  to  Airdislee; 
He  '11  be  at  Lady  Ellen's  feet, 

His  head  upon  her  knee. 

Her  knees  are  clad  in  cloth  of  gold, 

A  lordly  place  to  rest; 
But  ask  him  if  it  be  as  soft 

As  was  thy  sister's  breast! 

Then  put  this  curse  upon  his  head 
That  I  may  sweetly  sleep. 

I  cannot  lie  there  unavenged, 
Though  buried  ne'er  so  deep. 

So  that  I  be  not  doomed  to  walk 

A  ghost  un  comforted, 
Put  thou  this  ban  upon  his  life, 

This  curse  upon  his  head: 

"May  every  step  thou  takest  lead 

Down  on  the  path  to  hell. 
May  every  daughter  of  thy  race 
Fall  as  thy  victim  fell. 


A   MEDIEVAL  DEATH-BED  47 

"May  every  son  that 's  born  to  thee 

Be  curst  with  strong  desire, 
Yet  powerless  by  the  hand  of  God 
To  sin  as  sinned  his  sire. 

"  May  every  prayer  change  on  thy  lips 

To  awful  blasphemy, 
So  that  by  thine  own  prayer  thy  soul 
Must  needs  accursed  be." 

Now,  long  life  to  the  Lord  of  Clyde, 

And  may  my  curse  work  well. 
I  could  not  bide  in  heaven  were  he 

Undoomed  to  bide  in  hell. 

The  little  angels  I  shall  leave, 

My  harp  I  shall  forget; 
'T  will  be  my  heaven  to  look  on  him 

From  heaven's  parapet. 

To  see  the  justice  of  the  Lord 

Worked  out  in  such  a  way, 
Would  turn  hell's  gloom  for  one  like  me 

To  bright  eternal  day. 


48  A   MEDIEVAL  DEATH-BED 

Fare  on,  my  little  brother,  now, 

And  do  my  last  behest; 
Turn  thou  my  face  against  the  wall, 

And  I  will  sweetly  rest. 

Farewell,  and  yet  a  long  farewell, 
For  death  will  come  to  me 

Before  thyself  and  Jock,  thy  hound, 
Come  back  from  Airdislee. 

But  if  the  curse  thou  carry  well, 
The  good  God  I  will  ask 

To  let  Jock  enter  heaven  with  thee, 
Because  thou  didst  this  task. 

Repeat  the  curse  upon  the  way, 

Again  and  yet  again ; 
And  be  thou  blest  and  be  he  damned,- 

Hear  me,  O  God !  Amen. 


CRITICISM 

She  sang  a  song  of  death  and  battle, 

Through  which  one  heard  the  cannon  roll. 

They  said,  "  O  wondrous  gift  of  fancy, 
The  glorious  dower  of  poet-soul !  " 

She  sang  a  song  of  love  and  passion  — 
Love's  land,  she  sang,  was  very  fair. 

They  said  no  more  of  wondrous  fancy, 

They  said,  "  She  lays  her  own  heart  bare." 


49 


REFUGE 

Not  to  live  in  thy  arms,  O  Beloved — 

I  do  not  ask  that  of  fate; 
Past  summer  nights  were  the  time  for  dreaming, 

And  this  dream  came  too  late. 

Only  to  die  in  thy  arms,  Beloved  — 

Thy  kiss  to  drink  my  last  breath; 
Too  late  for  the  dream,  yet  I  dreamed.    What  matter? 

There  are  still  thy  arms  —  and  death  ! 


DESOLATION 

Strive  not,  dear  Love,  to  hide  from  me  thy  pain; 
I  know  thou  lov'st,  and  art  not  loved  again. 
So  I  love  thee,  yea,  just  as  much  in  vain; 
Shrink  not  then,  Love:  we  bear  a  common  pain. 

We  two,  alone  and  chilled,  stand  side  by  side, 
By  a  grief  severed,  by  a  grief  allied. 
The  earth  a  snow-clad  moorland  stretches  wide, 
And  we  are  far  apart,  though  side  by  side. 


RESOLVE 

He  kissed  my  hand, —  the  hand  that  holds  the  pen, 

Bathed  it  in  love,  from  finger-tips  to  wrist. 

The  wandering  veins  that  felt  his  lips'  impress 

Throbbed   with   new   life   the    moment    they    were 
kissed. 

The  hand  itself,  thus  blest,  shall  strive  to  be 
Worthy  its  honor,  and  shall  only  write 

Words  consecrate  to  high  and  lofty  life 
From  this  time  on,  in  memory  of  to-night. 


CHEATED 

You  loved  me  for  the  gold  you  thought  I  had; 
I  loved  you  for  the  honor,  proud  and  high, 
I  dreamed  was  in  your  soul.     Alas,  poor  fools ! 
Which  was  worse  cheated,  think  you,  you  or  I  ? 

And  now  we  meet  with  shamed,  averted  eyes; 
For  such  false  fancies  both  may  meetly  sigh; 
For  I  am  poor  as  any  beggar-maid, 
And  you  are  not  the  flower  of  chivalry. 

Come,  once  my  suitor,  come,  extend  your  hand; 
'T  is  fitting  that  we  thus  should  say  good-by. 
Come,  let  us  bid  adieu  on  common  ground, 
Though  you  were  scarce  so  greatly  duped  as  I ! 


53 


A   WOMAN'S   ADIEU 

Our  love  is  done! 
I  would  not  have  it  back,  I  say, — 
I  would  not  have  my  whole  year  May ! 
But  yet  for  our  dead  passion's  sake, 
Kiss  me  once  more,  and  strive  to  make 
Our  last  kiss  the  supremest  one, 
For  love  is  done. 

Our  love  is  done! 

And  still  my  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 
Our  souls  are  stirred  with  vague  regret, 
We  gaze  farewell,  yet  cannot  speak, 
And  firm  resolve  grows  strangely  weak, 

Though  hearts  are  twain  that  once  were  one. 
Since  love  is  done. 

54 


A    WOMAN'S  ADIEU  55 

But  love  is  done! 
I  know  it,  vow  it,  and  that  kiss 
Must  set  a  finis  to  our  bliss; 
Yet  when  I  felt  thy  mouth  meet  mine, 
My  life  again  seemed  half  divine, 
Our  very  hearts  together  run ! 
Can  love  be  done? 

Can  love  be  done? 
Who  cares  if  this  be  mad  or  wise  ? 
Trust  not  my  words,  but  read  my  eyes ; 
Thy  kiss  bade  sleeping  love  awake, 
Then  take  me  to  thy  heart  —  ah,  take 
The  life  that  with  thine  own  is  one! 
Love  is  not  done. 


SEE-SAW 

Oh  is  it  food  for  sighs  at  Fate, 

Or  is  it  food  for  laughter, 
That  men  should  love  the  best  to-day, 

And  women  the  day  after? 

Men  seize  the  hour  to  vow  and  kiss, 

Forget,  and  onward  wander; 
But  women  on  the  morrow  sigh, 

"To-day  I  would  be  fonder!" 

Women  steal  back,  look  through  the  pales 

At  finished  yesterday. 
"  Why  was  it  winter  with  me  then, 
When  now  my  mood  is  May  ?  " 

How  fair  for  women  were  the  world, 
How  full  of  song  and  laughter, 

If  they  could  love  to-day,  or  men 
Could  love  them  the  day  after! 


A   MOTHER'S   SONG 

Dear  little  one  upon  my  breast, 

Not  for  thy  sake  alone  I  love; 
But  when  thy  dawn-bright  eyes  unclose 

To  mine,  that  watch  thee  from  above, 
In  softened  mold  I  vaguely  trace 
The  lines  of  his  beloved  face. 

Ah,  little  one,  not  solely  mine, 

But  mine  and  his,  thus  doubly  sweet; 

And  ours  to  guide  on  heavenward  path 
The  journeyings  of  those  little  feet. 

'T  is  joy,  not  fears,  that  brings  these  tears, 

Thou  'rt  God's  and  ours  through  all  the  years ! 


57 


THE   FLIGHT 

Love  is  already  on  the  wing : 

How  quick  to  fly,  once  he  was  freed ! 
We  would  not  call  him  if  we  could, — 

God-speed,  dear  Love,  God-speed ! 

Love  is  already  on  the  wing: 
Both  you  and  I  are  glad  indeed. 

Yet  voices  tremble  as  we  cry, 

"God-speed,  dear  Love,  God-speed!" 


ALLEGIANCE 

I  used  to  lay  my  cheek  upon  the  pillow, 

Obeying  thee,  the  calm  was  sweet  and  deep : 
"  Be  thy  last  conscious  thought  of  me  in  waking, 
Ere  thy  soul  sinks  in  sleep." 

O  bitter,  later  nights,  when  still  obeying, 

My  soul  must  needs  its  awful  vigil  keep, 
Until  at  dawn  the  body  failed  in  stupor — 
A  mockery  of  sleep. 

Thou  still  art  lord  in  death ;  for  now  in  passing 

My  soul  doth  its  obedient  habit  keep, 
And  its  last  conscious  thought  is  thine  this  moment, 
Sinking,  thank  God,  in  sleep ! 


UNDERNEATH 

I  am  weary  of  mask  and  of  buskin, 

I  would  throw  them  aside  for  a  time; 
But  you  laugh  when  I  speak  of  my  sorrows, — 

They  are  pretty  enough  for  a  rhyme. 
But  sorrow  —  the  women  who  know  it 

Smile  not,  nor  are  jesting  the  while ! 
You  are  baffled,  like  all  men,  my  dearest, 

By  the  simple  device  of  a  smile. 

I  think  of  a  certain  fair  meadow 

Engirdled  by  trees  where  birds  sing; 
And  in  May  gay  with  white  and  gold  daisies 

Flung  down  like  a  carpet  by  Spring; 
And  in  winter  still  fair,  with  its  hollows 

And  hillocks  enfolded  in  snow; 
Yet  that  once  was  a  battle-field,  dearest, 

And  its  dead,  none  the  less,  lie  below ! 


DO 


IMPOSSIBILITY 

Is  love  eternal  in  the  highest  souls? 
Is  it,  then,  low  to  love,  and  love  again? 
Spring  goes,  and  comes  back  every  year  to  throw 
Fresh  garlands  of  old  kinds  on  field  and  fen. 
Though  not  the  same,  are  they  not  just  as  sweet, 
These  violets  crushed  beneath  our  passing  feet? 

I  do  not  love  thee,  dearest,  as  I  loved, — 
As  good,  but  not  the  same,  my  love  for  thee. 
I  can  for  thee  re-sing  the  old  dear  song, 
Merely  transposing  to  another  key. 
Throw  not  on  me  that  icy  look  of  blame, — 
What  matter,  if  the  tune  remain  the  same? 

Ask  not  the  river  for  a  last  year's  tide 

She  yielded  tributary  to  the  sea; 

Ask  not  of  fate  long  years  of  garnered  love, 

Stored  up  with  prescience  when  I  knew  not  thee. 

Ask  for  my  every  drop  of  blood  up  to  the  last, 

But  do  not,  in  God's  name,  require  the  past. 


61 


AN   EXPLANATION 

Ah,  well  I  know  that  just  beyond  the  gate 
Lies  the  long  glade  where  once  I  used  to  stray; 
Yet  cease,  for  friendship's  sake,  these  urging  words 
To  tread  this  year  the  old  accustomed  way. 

I  am  afraid  of  that  green  hedge-girt  walk, 
The  silent  sun-scorched  field,  the  moist,  dim  wood, 
And  then  —  O  little  corner  by  the  fallen  tree, 
O  distant  murmur  of  the  ocean  flood ! 

No  memories  of  another  haunt  the  place. 
Yet,  while  I  whisper,  pity  and  forbear. 
'T  is  that  I  dare  not  face  my  last  year's  self, 
The  happy  ghost  that  ever  wanders  there ! 


BLACK   MAGIC 

I  would  forgive  the  sleepless  nights, 

I  would  forgive  the  pain, 
If  you  would  only  give  me  back 

My  own  dear  world  again. 

I  cannot  put  in  subtle  words 
The  mischief  you  have  done. 

But  there  's  a  difference  in  the  storm, 
A  difference  in  the  sun. 

The  marshes  have  an  evil  look, 
The  sea  lies  stripped  and  bare; 

The  gracious  mists  seem  torn  away 
From  nature  everywhere. 

I  may  forget  the  sleepless  nights, 

I  may  forget  the  pain; 
But  I,  alas,  shall  never  see 

My  own  dear  world  again  ! 


A   SECRET 

They  pass,  and  smile,  and  nod  the  head, 

They  do  not  guess  that  I  am  dead. 

Dear  friends,  I  died  a  year  ago, 

Only  I  never  told  you  so. 

I  dine,  and  never  does  my  host 

Suspect  he  entertains  a  ghost, 

Who,  when  her  body  dies,  will  be 

No  stranger  in  eternity. 

If  I  but  wore  a  plaited  shroud, 

And  could  not  breathe,  or  speak  aloud, 

And  lay  with  lilies  at  my  head, 

Then  they  would  come  and  whisper,  "  Dead." 

But  you,  dear  friends,  my  secret  know: 

I  really  died  a  year  ago. 


A   MADMAN 

The  man  most  to  be  envied 

That  my  eyes  ever  saw 
Fancied  he  was  a  king,  and  wore 

A  crown  of  plaited  straw. 
He  lived  in  regal  dignity, 

And  nothing  made  him  sad — 
This  happy  king!     They  pitied  him, 

Merely  that  he  was  mad. 
And  yet  the  men  who  mourned  with  sighs 

His  lamentable  state 
Were  tortured  heart  and  brain  by  care 

And  sorrow's  leaden  weight. 
I  thought  what  strange  ideas  of  life   , 

These  suffering  people  had, 
To  wish  him  sane  and  wretched,  when 

He  was  so  happy,  mad! 


SUPPLICATION 

Did  I  not  ask  for  him,  my  dear,  my  own, 

All  goodly  things  of  God  ? 
I  thought  that  sand  of  gold'  must  needs  be  spread 

Upon  the  path  he  trod. 

I  asked  for  joy  and  glory  as  his  right, 

With  arrogance  of  love. 
God  did  not  give  them  to  him  here  below: 

Perhaps  He  will,  above. 

O  there  was  nothing  good  I  did  not  name 

In  asking  gifts  for  him, 
And  now  all  prayers  have  dwindled  down  to  one, 

Whispered  with  eyes  grown  dim  — 

That  last  short,  humble  prayer  left  us  to  say, 

Bent  'neath  the  scourging  rod: 
"  O  grant  his  coming  pains  of  death  be  brief, — 
An  easy  passing,  God  !  " 


66 


A  SONG   OF   SORROW 

These  days  my  breaking  heart  laments, 
These  nights  I  weep  with  moan  and  sigh; 

For  they  must  die  who  fain  would  live, 
And  they  must  live  who  fain  would  die! 

O  friends  unknown,  come  mourn  with  me; 

For  bitterest  grief  hides  in  that  cry. 
Ask  not  if,  dying,  I  would  live ; 

Ask  not  if,  living,  I  would  die! 


TO   A   NUN 

The  world  said  in  thine  ear,  "  Lo,  thou  art  fair 
An  ivory  house,  a  shelter  meet  for  Love." 

But  thou  instead  hast  made  thy  saintly  self 
An  habitation  for  the  Heavenly  Dove. 


68 


IN   PRAISE    OF   LIFE 

I  am  so  glad  to  suffer  pain, 

To  bear  the  old,  fierce  pangs  again, 

For  torturing  thought  wars  with  this  torture 
For  utter  mastery  in  vain. 

How  little  of  the  soul  they  know 
Who  paint  Hell  as  the  body's  woe : 

They  have  not  guessed  the  spirit's  anguish 
That  finds  relief  in  fleshly  throe. 

O  fool !  to  dream  thy  misery 

Shall  fade,  once  from  thy  body  free, 

Thinkest  thou  the  soul  forgets  in  passing 
That  with  the  flesh  dies  memory  ? 

Body  and  pain,  I  cling  to  thee, 
From  thy  diverting  clamors  free ; 

Alas,  for  my  sad  soul,  when,  naked 
In  death,  it  fights  with  memory! 


69 


A   PRISONER 

What  difference,  what  difference, 
Which  way  the  body  goes; 

Whether  't  is  burned  by  Indian  suns, 
Or  chilled  by  Arctic  snows? 

The  soul  remains  forevermore 
Shut  in  that  one  small  room, 

As  close  immured  within  those  walls 
As  dead  men  in  the  tomb. 

It  could  not  leave  that  wretched  spot 

To  follow  if  it  willed, — 
Condemned,  unhappy  ghost,  to  haunt 

The  place  where  it  was  killed. 
70 


A   PRISONER  71 

It  calls  the  shuddering  body  back, 

Wherever  it  may  be, 
To  come  there,  to  that  dreadful  place, 

And  bear  it  company. 

"  Come  back,  thou  coward  body,  come!" 

It  clamors  to  the  heart. 
"  Come  here  and  die,  where  I  was  killed, 

Thy  lord,  and  better  part !  " 


THE   ELEVENTH   HOUR 

Why  should  the  gods  have  sent  you  at  twilight  ? 

Life  is  too  late  with  me  now  for  a  lover. 
Melted  away  are  the  mists  of  my  morning, 
And  love-time  is  over. 

Why  should  the  gods  have  sent  you  at  twilight  ? 

Nay,  rny  friend,  nay,  for  the  shadows  grow  deeper. 
Yet   to    dream   of  your  love  shall  make  the   grave's 
midnight 

Sweet  to  one  sleeper. 


A   SEASON   REMEMBERED 

I  shall  never  forget  those  last  few  days 

Before  the  death  of  my  heart: 
Spring  had  just  leaped  in  the  womb  of  the  year 

With  its  first  glad  vital  start; 
Black  buds  were  splitting  to  show  their  green, 
Fresh  showers  had  washed  the  blue  heavens  clean, 
The  whole  sweet  world  with  joy  was  rife, 
Because  the  year  had  just  felt  life. 

I  shall  never  forget  those  last  few  days 

Before  the  death  of  my  heart: 
In  all  the  life-quiver  and  bourgeoning 

I  felt  I  had  parcel  and  part; 
It  is  so  good  that  I  did  not  guess 
I  must  change  those  fields  for  the  wilderness; 
It  is  so  good  that  I  did  not  know 
I  must  leave  the  spring  and  go  back  to  the  snow. 


HOMESICKNESS 

0  take  me  back  to  those  low-lying  lands 

I  used  to  love.     I  want  that  inlet's  tide 
That  runs  out  moaning  'twixt  the  yellow  fields 

To  where  the  shimmering  blue  is  rippling  wide, 
And  lay  my  broken  body  on  the  sands 

Where  strong  and  sparse  marsh-grasses  wave  abov* 
The  salty  earth  that  bears  them ;    let  me  rest, 

For  I  am  very  tired  of  faithless  love. 

And  let  me  feel  upon  my  pallid  mouth 

The  wind's  rough,  friendly  kisses,  cold  and  clean, 

Against  the  lips  that  can  but  shape  a  moan, 
Where  warmer,  falser  kisses  once  have  been. 

1  want  to  lay  my  cheek  on  kindly  earth, 
I  want  to  see  the  truthful  sky  above, 

I  want  those  old  things  I  have  long  forgot, 
For  I  am  very  tired  of  faithless  love. 


74 


LET  THE   DREAM   GO 

I  was  so  fain  to  love,  dear! 

Let  the  dream  go. 
The  brightest  vision  dies  of  dawn, 

The  rose  of  snow, 
And  blossoms  all  fall  from  the  tree 

When  June  winds  blow. 

I  was  so  fain  to  live,  dear! 

Let  the  dream  go. 
Who  heeds  the  faded  blooms  of  May 

That  drift  below? 
And  though  Spring's  self 
Should  weep  for  them, 

They  would  not  know. 


75 


DISILLUSION 

I  wish  I  might  have  borne  the  woe 
Of  hopeless  love  and  unrequited, 

And  kept  a  noble  all  my  life 

The  man  my  sovereign  fancy  knighted, 

I  thought  that  pain  was  hard  to  bear; 

'T  was  light  beside  this  later  sorrow : 
To  bid  farewell  to  him  to-day, 

Nor  care  to  see  him  on  the  morrow ! 


AT   A   POET'S   FUNERAL 

Thou  sang'st  no  labored  virelay, 
Thou  hadst  no  tunes  to  suit  thy  day, 
And  so  the  world  hath  not  drawn  near 
To  praise  and  weep  about  thy  bier. 
Thou  hadst  not  trilled  a  dainty  song, 
Nor  slurred  in  art  the  darling  wrong, 
Nor  sucked  such  milk  as  one  who  feeds 
At  withered  breasts  of  ancient  creeds. 
An  age  too  soon  thy  soul  did  stray 
From  heaven  to  earth  down  star-lit  way, 
And  none  had  grace  to  understand, 
And  bend  to  kiss  thy  prophet  hand, 
And  dim]y  guess  the  future  might 
Of  pen  plunged  in  thy  heart  to  write. 
Yet,  though  that  ink  of  blood  and  tears 
Shall  glow  as  fire  in  coming  years, 

77 


78  AT  A   POET'S  FUNERAL 

Save  hirelings  and  I  to-day 
None  watch  thy  clay  returned  to  clay. 
Yet  prouder  I  the  claim  to  have 
To  stand  here  by  this  open  grave 
Than  laureate  with  the  right  to  sing 
Beside  the  catafalque  of  king. 
O  friend,  this  lonely  scene  bespeaks 
The  vengeance  that  the  gay  world  wreaks 
On  him  whose  name  shall  bear  this  stain: 
"  He  loved  the  truth,  and  spake  too  plain." 


LAST  WORDS 

I  waste  no  pity  on  my  dying  self, 

Because  some  woman  yet  may  take  my  place 
(Nay,  swear  no  oaths  that  future  days  may  rue, 

But  closer  to  mine  own  bend  thy  dear  face). 

Hers  it  will  be  to  sigh;  for,  knowing  thee, 

This,  too,  I  know:  the  old  dream  shall  obtain, 

Even  while  thy  head  rests  soft  upon  her  arm, 
And  while  thy  hand  of  her  warm  hand  is  fain. 

And  every  kiss  given  in  despair  to  her 
Upon  my  lips  in  fancy  will  be  pressed, 

And  soon  or  late  her  breaking  heart  will  learn 
She  cannot  drive  thy  dead  love  from  thy  breast. 

79 


8o  LAST  WORDS 

0  blame  me  not,  since  I  must  go,  that  I 
Can  snatch  prophetic  triumph  in  this  hour. 

1  who  have  been  thy  Light,  thy  Love,  thine  Own 
Will  not,  in  death,  resign  my  queenly  power. 

I  shall  be  thine.     Thy  soul  cannot  divorce 
Me  from  my  place.     I  fear  no  later  days, 

Though  in  them  thou  wilt  learn  to  smile  again, 
And  walk  with  seeming  cheer  earth's  pleasant  ways. 

Yes,  thine  I  still  shall  be, —  as  truly  thine, 
Perhaps,  as  when  warm  kisses  I  could  give; 

And  so  re-kissed,  re -loved,  and  re-embraced  in  her 
By  thy  despair,  I,  being  dead,  shall  live! 


RECOLLECTION 

Ho\v  can  it  be  that  I  forget 
The  way  he  phrased  my  doom, 

When  I  recall  the  arabesques 
That  carpeted  the  room  ? 

How  can  it  be  that  I  forget 
His  look  and  mien  that  hour, 

When  I  recall  I  wore  a  rose, 
And  still  can  smell  the  flower? 

How  can  it  be  that  I  forget 
Those  words  that  were  the  last, 

When  I  recall  the  tune  a  man 
Was  whistling  as  he  passed  ? 

These  things  are  what  we  keep  from  life's 

Supremest  joy  or  pain; 
For  Memory  locks  her  chaff  in  bins 

And  throws  away  the  grain. 


Si 


OF   LATE 

There  was  a  time  when  I  could  think  of  death 
As  calmly  as  of  life :  't  was  ere  I  knew 

What  sacrament  of  joy  beyond  all  dream 
Lies  in  the  life  welded  from  love  of  two. 

Now  at  its  whisper  I  more  closely  cling 

In  deadliest  fear  to  thee.     Yet  one  must  die, 

And  some  day  one  must  leave  the  other  here, — 
Ay,  one  must  go  first,  either  thou  or  I ! 

And  then  I  heavenward  turn  my  anguished  face, 
And  thank  God  that  the  way  at  least  is  free ; 

And  none  can  hold,  if  through  the  pass  of  Death, 
Even  as  through  life,  I  choose  to  follow  thee! 


SUPPOSE 

How  sad  if,  by  some  strange  new  law, 

All  kisses  scarred  ! 
For  she  who  is  most  beautiful 

Would  be  most  marred. 

And  we  might  be  surprised  to  see 

Some  lovely  wife 
Smooth-visaged,  while  a  seeming  prude 

Was  marked  for  life. 


A   TRUTHFUL   SONG   OF   AGE 

(Senex  loquitur) 

Only  the  craven  cries,  time-conquered, 
"  Fair  is  this  quiet  space  of  honored  age !  " 
I,  if  I  could,  would  give  all  days  remaining 
To  gain  one  hour  to-night  of  youth's  sweet  rage  ! 

Ah,  how  I  loathe  these  feeble  nerves  and  trembling, 
This  hoary  hair,  this  yellow,  time-etched  brow! 
Ah,  to  stand  straight  and  strong,  the  hot  blood  leaping 
Through  this  chill  body,  shrunk  and  withered  now  ! 

Ah,  for  sweet  love,  that  drove  me  nigh  to  madness! 
His  half  the  royalty  of  youth's  brief  reign. 
No  red  lips  kiss  me  now;  how  could  they  bear  it, 
Through  my  parched  skin  the  death's-head  shows  so 
plain ! 

84 


A    TRUTHFUL  SONG   OF  AGE  85 

Lies  told  myself  will  never  serve  to  soothe  me, 
Why  should  I  vow  I  find  life's  sunset  bright  ? 
Mine  is  a  soul  that  should  have  passed  at  mid-day; 
It  turns  with  horror  from  the  gathering  night ! 


APRIL  — AND    DYING 

Green  blood  fresh  pulsing  through  the  trees, 
Black  buds,  that  sun  and  shower  distend; 

All  other  things  begin  anew, 
But  I  must  end. 

Warm  sunlight  on  faint-colored  sward, 
Warm  fragrance  in  the  breezes'  breath; 

For  other  things  are  heat  and   life, 
For  me  is  death. 


86 


LIVES 

To  drain  as  the  nectar  of  heaven 

The  dregs  of  thy  youth's  poisoned  wine ; 

To  stand  in  thy  shadow  forever, 

And  hold  the  shade  better  than  shine  — 
This  is  mine. 

To  spurn,  lest  its  burden  impede  thee, 
A  love  counted  once  half  divine; 

To  tread  on  a  heart  without  heeding 
In  thy  struggle  up  life's  steep  incline  — 
This  is  thine. 

Yet  in  the  black  hour  when  death  crosses 
Life's  feebly  hedged  boundary  line, 

Which  lot  wouldst  thou  choose  as  thy  record, 
Closed  till  judgment,  and  sealed  with  thy  sign- 
Thine  or  mine? 


FANNY 

A    SOUTHERN    BLOSSOM 

Come  and  see  her  as  she  stands, 
Crimson  roses  in  her  hands ; 

And  her  eyes 

Are  as  dark  as  Southern  night, 
Yet  than  Southern  dawn  more  bright, 
And  a  soft,  alluring  light 

In  them  lies. 

None  deny  if  she  beseech 
With  that  pretty,  liquid  speech 

Of  the  South. 

All  her  consonants  are  slurred, 
And  the  vowels  are  preferred; 
There  's  a  poem  in  each  word 

From  that  mouth. 


FANNY  89 

Even  Cupid  is  her  slave; 
Of  his  arrows,  half  he  gave 

Her  one  day 
In  a  merry,  playful  hour. 
Dowered  with  these  and  beauty's  dower, 
Strong  indeed  her  magic  power, 

So  they  say. 

Venus,  not  to  be  outdone 
By  her  generous  little  son, 

Shaped  the  mouth 
Very  like  to  Cupid's  bow. 
Lack-a-day !    Our  North  can  show 
No  such  lovely  flowers  as  grow 

In  the  South! 


AN    OLD    REFRAIN 

0  homely,  puzzling,  truthful  words 
We  women  sometimes  say ! 

1  love  you  just  as  much,  dear  heart, 
But  in  a  different  way. 

We  cannot  tell  you  what  we  mean, 

However  you  may  pray, 
Nor  make  you  feel  the  later  love 

Is  quite  so  sweet  a  way. 

Yet  often  truer  than  your  oaths 
Those  foolish  words  we  say : 
"  I  love  you  just  as  much,  dear  heart, 
But  in  a  different  way." 


LOVE,  THE  WANDERER 

At  my  threshold  stands  a  guest; 
Shall  I,  dare  I,  bid  him  enter? 
T  is  the  very  dead  of  winter ; 
Snowy  roads  his  feet  have  pressed; 
Inhospitably  I  wait, 
Trembling,  still  I  hesitate. 

With  his  wings  he  veils  his  face, 
And  a  glory  half  divine 
Like  a  nimbus  seems  to  shine 
Round  him,  making  bright  the  place. 
Cold  the  night,  and  yet  I  stand, 
On  the  latch  a  halting  hand. 
91 


92  LOVE,  THE    WANDERER 

What  if  I  should  bid  him  come, 
And  with  him  should  enter  Woe? 
For  't  is  whispered,  well  we  know, 
That  the  pair  together  roam; 
And  who  welcomes  Love,  they  say, 
Lets  in  Woe,  who  stays  alway. 

Yet — the  night  is  very  chill! 
Love  is  shivering  with  the  cold; 
'T  is,  mayhap,  a  fable  old 
That  he  bringeth  tears  and  ill. 
Sure  a  maiden's  heart  were  hard 
Thus  to  keep  the  entrance  barred ! 

Hark!  I  hear  his  piteous  moan, 
Welcome,  Love,  the  house  is  thine, 
Shelter,  fire,  and  meat  and  wine  — 
Welcome,  Love,  and  take  thine  own. 
And  if  with  thee  enter  Woe, 
Then,  in  sooth,  it  must  be  so! 


SOUVENIRS 

Mais  ou  sont  les  neiges  d  'antan  ? 

Where  is  the  glove  that  I  gave  to  him, 
Perfumed  and  warm  from  my  arm  that  night  ? 
And  where  is  the  rose  that  another  stole 
When  the  land  was  flooded  with  June  moonlight, 
And  the  satin  slipper  I  wore? — Alack, 

Some  one  had  that — it  was  wrong,  I  fear. 
Where  are  those  souvenirs  to-day? 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

The  glove  was  burned  at  his  next  love's  prayer, 
And  the  rose  was  lost  in  the  mire  of  the  street ; 
And  the  satin  slipper  he  tossed  away, 
For  his  jealous  bride  had  not  fairy  feet. 
Give  what  you  will,  but  know,  mesdames, 

For  a  day  alone  are  your  favors  dear. 
Be  sure  for  the  next  fair  woman's  sake 

They  will  go  —  like  the  snows  of  yester-year.. 

93 


HARKING   BACKWARD 

You  strive  and  strive  to  read  my  thought. 

I  say  and  say,  you  will  repent. 
Foolhardy  Soul,  come,  then,  and  read, 

Since  thus  you  crave  your  own  torment. 
Come,  see  this  room  far  down  a  street, 
Where  never  trod  your  hurrying  feet ! 

Come,  see  this  curtained,  cushioned  room, 
All  bathed  in  amorous  crimson  light; 

Within,  the  roses   die  of  warmth, 
Without  is  chill  of  bitter  night; 

The  blur  of  sound  from  city  street 

But  makes  the  silence  doubly  sweet. 

94 


HARKING  BACKWARD 

And  see  me  listening  for  a  step  — 
Oh,  I  am  tired.    Nay,  see  no  more, 

Nor  listen  to  the  hasting  feet 

Come  down  the  echoing  corridor. 

No  further,  though  your  prayers  besought 

To  follow  to  the  end  my  thought! 

Oh,  I  am  tired.     So  hold  me  close, 
My  lips  against  your  suffering  face. 

And  keep  my  soul  here  with  your  eyes, 
Lest  it  should  travel  back  through  space. 

Leaving  my  body  on  your  breast, — 

A  bird,  that  wants  its  last  year's  nest! 


RELICS 

I  thought  I  knew  her  past  as  mine, 

Until  she  lay  there  dead, 
And  I  explored  that  Indian  chest 

Lacquered  in  gold  and  red. 

I  did  not  stop  to  moralize; 

The  lesson  there  was  plain. 
I  hurried  home  to  tear  and  burn, 

And  make  her  loss  my  gain. 

How  inconsiderate  to  die 

And  leave  such  things  to  paint 

An  unguessed  past,  when  friends  bereaved 
Prefer  to  mourn  a  saint! 


LOVE   AND   LORE 

Ah,  let  my  hand  lie  warm  in  thine,  the  hand  that  held 

the  pen; 
It  shall  not  miss  its  once-loved  task,  nor  long  to  work 

again. 
And  let  me  hide  my  weary  eyes  against  thy  sheltering 

breast ; 
Let  others  wear  the  bays  I  craved;  I  know  that  love 

is  best! 

Art's    paths    were    over- sharp    for    me,   and    cold    its 

mountain  air; 
For  I  am  but  a  woman,  dear,  and  Love's  land  is  so 

fair! 
So  half-way  up  Fame's  steep  incline  I  pause  and  yield 

my  place. 
What !    dare   you  ask  if  I  regret  ?     Bend   close   and 

read  my  face ! 


97 


A   SILENT    EPISODE 

In  a  procrastinating  car 

That    slowly  jogged  along  Broadway, — 
She  on  some  pious  errand  bound, 

I  to  a  matinee. 

The  Little  Sister  of  the  Poor 

Who  faced  me,  gave  me  one  long  glance 
A  commentary  on  our  lives, 

On  fate  and  circumstance. 

Her  look  first  dwelt  upon  my  face, 
And  then  it  traveled  slowly  down, 

Took  in  my  opera-glass  and  furs, 
My  rather  modish  gown. 


A   SILENT  EPISODE  99 

"  And  is  the  world  so  sweet  and  bad  ?  " 
The  saintly  blue  eyes  seemed  to  ask; 

"  Does  pleasure  bring  one  keener  joy 
Than  my  unceasing  task? 

"  My  life  comprises  only  this, 

To  toil  and  weep  and  serve  and  pray; 
But  youth  and  pleasure,  song  and  gold, 
Make  your  life  bright  and  gay." 

And  my  eyes  answered  her,  but  she 

Could  not,  perhaps,  translate  their  glance. 
"Ah,  Sister,  what  an  irony 
Is  outward  circumstance! 

"  Beneath  this  silken  bodice  beats 

A  heart  as  grave  as  'neath  thy  serge; 
And,  deaf  to  melody,  it  hears 
Naught  but  its  own  sad  dirge. 

"  Often  it  sighs  for  hours  like  yours, 

A  cell  where  it  might  weep  unheard; 
Freedom  to  doff  the  mask  of  smiles 
By  the  gay  world  preferred. 


A    SILENT  EPISODE 

"  And  if  your  gentle  soul  would  pray 

For  hearts  whose  pain  no  tongue  can  tell; 
Those  who  need  prayers  are  in  the  world, — 
Not  in  a  convent-cell." 

The  car  stopped,  and  with  eyes  downcast 
She  hurried  out  on  bright  Broadway; 

While  I  went  on,  with  envious  heart, — 
A  player,  to  a  play. 


THE   RING 


Hid  in  an  antique  box, 

With  faded  leaf  and  flower 
(The  only  fitting  gifts 

Of  love  that  lives  an  hour), 
Gemmed  with  a  diamond  tear 

For  joy  that  could  not  cling, 
Behold  the  word  inside, 

For  "  Ton  jours"  says  the  ring ! 

She  sometimes  lifts  the  lid, 

With  light  and  careless  laugh, 
And  reads  the  lying  word, 

Love's  mocking  epitaph. 
She  has  no  sighs  or  tears 

For  such  a  foolish  thing 
As  love  dead  long  ago, 

Yet — "  Toujours"  says  the  ring ! 


102  THE  RING 

But  in  soft  nights  of  May 

The  proud  and  silent  heart 
Owns  to  itself  a  truth, 

And  spurns  its  wonted  part. 
It  cries  out  for  the  grace 

Of  one  departed  spring, 
"Toujours"  admits  the  soul, 

And  "Toujours"  says  the  ring 


A   SONG   OF   FAITHFUL   LOVE 

He  's  no  lad, — my  love  Js  no  lad, — 
He  's  past  full  manhood's  prime; 

He  never  stole  a  curl  from  me, 
Or  sent  me  bits  of  rhyme. 

But  when  he  folds  me  in  his  arm, 

I  feel  so  sweetly  safe  from  harm ! 

He  's  no  lad, —  my  love  's  no  lad, — 

No  fickle,  foolish  boy ; 
And  time  has  written  on  his  face 

The  lines  of  pain  and  joy. 
He  often  looks  both  tired  and  sad, 
But  I  —  what  joy!  —  can  make  him  glad. 

He  's  no  lad, —  my  love  's  no  lad, — 
His  youth  has  passed  him  by; 

And  though  I  had  no  part  in  it, 
I  cannot  breathe  one  sigh, 

For,  oh,  he  swears  by  holy  truth 

I  am  his  sweeter,  second  youth! 
103 


JANE 

(LONG  ISLAND  DIALECT) 

Settin'  round  the  fish-house  door, 

Sunset  time  er  pretty  near; 
Tellin'  stories  —  some  er  which 

Would  n't  wish  for  ma  ter  hear. 
Bijer  'n'  the  younger  set 

Squat  behin'  us  mendin'  seine, 
'N'  I  heerd  'im  talkin'  low, 

Laugh  'n'  take  her  name  in  vain 
Her,  my  Jane ! 

Her,  my  youngest  down  ter  York, 
Workin'  hard  for  me  an'  mine. 

I  wa'n't  out'er  slew  thet  hour, 
Though  I  be  'most  sixty-nine. 
104 


JANE  105 

I  rose  up  ter  lay    'im  low. 
"  Stan'  off,  neighbors,  lemme  be ! " 
But  I  dropped  my  hand,  fer  all 

Knowed  of  some'h'n'  black  'cept  me, 
I  c'd  see. 

'N'  I  left  'em  on  the  beach. 

Now  they  all  c'd  have  the'r  say; 
I  made  fer  the  woods,  fer  thet  's 

All  hurt  creeturs'  natchel  way. 
I  can't  cal'late  how  I  got 

Home,  but  ma  was  settin'  there, 
Black  cat  croonin'  on  'er  lap, 

Lamplight  shinin'  on  'er  hair, 
White,  f'm  care. 

Crazy-like  I  called  'em  all, 

Lide  'n'  Vene,  'n'  told  'em  how 
Her  thet  was  the'r  sister  once 
Wa'n't  no  sister  to  'em  now; 
"  Ner  no  child  of  mine,"  says  I ; 
"  Ain't  no  talk  of  whose  ter  blame ;  , 
It  's  past  pard'nin'  when  a  child 

Slimes  the  black  creek-mud  o'  shame 
On  my  name." 


106  JANE 

But  the  farm  looked  changed,  'n'  Jane 

Seemed  ter  follow  every  place, — 
Where  I  'd  go,  I  'd  see  them  curls 

Bobbin'  round  'er  baby  face, 
Jest  the  same  as  when  she  'd  run 

Crost  the  picle  ter  the  gate, 
(Me  a-cartin'  seaweed  then), 

Callin' :  "  Wait,  Janey  says,  wait ! 
Her  '11  fix  the  gate  !  " 

Jane  she  come  back  home  at  last; 

Spite  'er  ma,  I  'd  held  my  way, 
Wrote  'er  thet  we  cast  'er  off, 

'T  wa'n't  no  use  ter  beg  er  pray. 
No  one  talked  of  sin  er  shame 

When  they  brought  'er  through  the  gate, 
An'  I  knowed  't  wa'n't  no  success 

Tryin'  ter  sour  love  inter  hate  — 
Then,  too  late  ! 

Fer  ther'  ain't  no  shame  so  black, 
Ner  no  brandin'  of  disgrace, 

Thet  's  past  pard'nin'  when  yer  child. 
Lays  there  with  a  dead,  white  face. 


JANE  107 

Best  room  was  so  dark  Tn'  still, 

Seemed  like  she  must  hear  me  plain, 

Whisperin' :  "  Jane,  fergive  yer  pa ; 
All  them  words  o'  mine  was  vain, — 
Come  back,  Jane  !  " 

Life  ain't  what  it  used  ter  be. 

Maybe  't  ain't  fair  ter  the  rest, 
But  sence  the  days  er  Prodergal 

Folks  seems  to  love  the'r  worst  ones  best. 
I  'm  gettin'  well  along  in  years, 

Wimblin',  V  weak,  'n'  full  o'  pain, 
'N'  more  'n'  more  seems  like  she  's  here 

A-playin'  round  the  floor — my  Jane — 
My  little  Jane ! 


MODERN    DESPAIR 

He  used  to  fancy  she  would  see  him  next 
With  blossoms  heaped  about  his  quiet  head; 
That  she  would  kneel  repentant  at  his  side, 
And  mourn  her  scorn  too  late  when  he  was  dead. 

He  did  not  die ;  but  when  they  met  next  year 
His  \voes  and  wrongs  again  burst  into  flame ; 
He  longed  to  score  her  now  with  stinging  words, 
But  he,  alas,  could  not  recall  her  name! 


108 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SONG 

I  wrote  a  song  long  years  ago 
To  celebrate  another's  woe. 
No  soft  voice  whispered  in  my  ear, 
"Child,  thine  own  fate  is  written  here." 
No  prescient  thought,  o'er-leaping  time, 
Told  me  my  doom  was  in  that  rhyme. 
I  wept  for  sorrow  at  her  grief — 
Wept  —  see,  upon  this  faded  leaf 
The  blistering  marks  of  many  tears 
The  paper  kept  through  all  these  years. 
But  when  /  bore  this  agony, 
The  current  of  my  tears  ran  dry. 
You  see,  I  shed  them  long  ago, 
When  my  woe  was  another's  woe! 


109 


A   NINETEENTH-CENTURY   REMEDY 

"  The  cure  for  love  is  more  love." — THOREAU 

Listen,  that  I  may  work  your  cure, 

M'sieur ; 

You  will  not  at  my  story's  end 
Call  me  your  love,  nor  yet  your  friend; 
You'll  sigh  for  me  no  more,  depend, 

M'sieur. 

I  took  your  love  to  be  my  cure, 

M'sieur; 

Perhaps  no  man  can  fathom  this — 
I  took  your  kiss  to  blur  his  kiss; 
I  coarsened  with  it  all  past  bliss, 

M'sieur. 


A   NINETEENTH-CENTURY  REMEDY         ill 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  my  cure, 

M'sieur. 

A  lower  love  may  kill  a  higher; 
I  burned  my  memories  in  its  fire, — 
Mere  acrid  smoke  rose  from  the  pyre, 

M'sieur ! 

Adieu,  we  both  have  found  our  cure, 

M'sieur. 

Love  cannot  wound  us,  passing  by; 
We  know  he  is  not  worth  one  sigh ; 
Yet,  are  we  happy,  you — or  I, 

M'sieur  ? 


A   REWARD   OFFERED 

Lost,  in  the  month  of  December, 

An  exquisite  dream  and  belief: 
It  either  was  dropped  on  Life's  highway, 

Or  stolen  by  Time,  the  arch-thief. 
If  found,  please  return  to  the  owner — 

Its  value  is  small  save  to  her; 
As  reward  all  her  earthly  possessions 

She  offers  without  a  demur. 

Tis  so  small  that  the  owner  could  hold  it 

In  one  human  heart's  little  space; 
So  great,  all  earth  shone  with  its  brightness 

And  looked  like  a  glorified  place. 
If  found,  and  returned  in  good  order, 

The  offered  reward  will  be  paid; 
But  the  finder  is  cautioned  against  delay, — 

Dreams  exposed  to  the  air  sometimes   fade  ! 


A   MODERN   ENCHANTRESS 

Try  as  you  may,  you  will  not  forget  me, 
Because  I  was  never  attained  and  possessed. 
Just  as  your  arms  were  outstretched  to  enfold  me, 
Onward  I  fled,  an  incarnate  Unrest. 

Ever  denied  makes  ever  desiring, 

Ever  eluded  makes  ever  pursued. 

Still  would  the  chase  be  on,  but  that  I  vanished : 

Tired  was  the  Will-o'-the-wisp  whom  you  wooed. 

Love  and  be  loved;  you  will  always  remember 
Mine  was  the  magic  that  holds  men  in  thrall. 
All  of  you  turn  from  the  love  that  surrenders, 
Sighing  for  that  which  gives  nothing  at  all ! 


"3 


DETHRONED 

My  rose,  't  is  scarce  an  hour  ago 

We  entered  regally  this  room 
To  queen  it  over  suppliant  love 

By  beauty's  right,  by  right  of  bloom  — 
So  rich  in  both,  so  sure  of  power, 

O  happy  I,  O  happy  flower ! 

My  rose,  the  hour  is  gone,  and  now 

You  droop  your  head  against  my  breast. 

Our  reign  was  brief,  our  reign  is  done, — 
Ah,  rose,  the  end  we  might  have  guessed! 

But  I  still  live,  though  dead  the  hour. 
You  died  with  it,  O  happy  flower! 


114 


A   MIDNIGHT   RIDE 

On  and  on — 

Foot  in  t.he  stirrup,  up  and  away! 
The  night  air  is  sweet  with  the  scent  of  the  May. 
Care  and  the  world  and  anguish  of  mind, 
Once  in  the  saddle  I  leave  them  behind, 
Dead  to  all  thought  but  the  sense  of  delight 
In  the  straining  of  nerve  in  our  swift  onward  flight. 
Talk  of  the  passion  of  love,  if  you  will, 
Of  the  leaping  of  heart,  of  the  kisses  that  thrill, 
I  tell  you  love's  bliss  could  never  compare 
With  this  rapturous  race  through  the  midnight  air, 
Nor  your  love's  heart-beats  make  a  sound  so  dear 
As  the  swift  hoof-beat  to  the  rider's  ear ! 
The  days  of  the  Centaurs  have  not  passed  by, 
So  truly  one  seem  my  horse  and  I. 

On  and  on, — 

For  life  knows  no  fiercer  bliss  and  delight 
Than   this   rush    through    the    wind    of    a    summer's 
night. 

"5 


A  WAYSIDE   WARNING 

I  fainted  by  the  way, 

The  August  heat  burned  fiercely  all  the  plain; 
With  trembling  limbs  and  turning,  dizzying  brain 

Prone  by  the  road  I  lay. 

Love  passed  along  that  way, 
And  in  his  hand  he  bore  a  generous  cup; 
With  crystal  water  it  was  brimming  up. 

"O  give  me,  or  I  die!" 

Smiling  and  stooping  by  my  side  knelt  Love ; 
The  roadside  dust  was  white.    He  took  thereof 

What  in  his  palm  would  lie, 

And  'twixt  my  parching  lips  he  poured,  and  laughed ; 
Then  in  the  road  he  threw  the  sparkling  draught, 

And  so  passed  by. 

O  travellers,  heed,  Love's  other  name  is  Hate; 
Ask  not  his  aid,  lest  ye  should  share  my  fate, 

And,  like  me,  die. 


AN   EARLY   LOVE   REMEMBERED 

Sometimes,  across  these  later  years 
One  memory  chaste  and  holy 

Drifts  back  and  makes  me  love  my  past 
For  that  sweet  reason  solely; 

Not  any  tide  of  time  or  chance 

Bears  out  of  sight  the  old  romance. 

No  love  on  earth  can  satisfy 
The  dream  of  child  or  poet ; 

I  who  was  happy,  guessed  it  not  — 
I  who  am  sadder,  know  it, 

Yet  — O  dear  days!    O  sweet  belief! 

O  so  well  worth  all  later  grief! 

And  all  fair  things,  too  pure  for  earth, 
And  therefore  briefly  given, — 

Lent  to  us  for  a  passing  hour 
And  then  recalled  to  Heaven, 
117 


H8  AN  EARLY  LOVE  REMEMBERED 

To  find  their  proper  place  above, — 
Bring  back  that  holy,  childish  love  : 

A  love  most  like  the  fragrant  snow 

Of  some  fair  Mary  lily, 
Scenting  the  altar  all  day  long 

To  die  when  night  comes  chilly; 
Yet  I  am  glad  this  heart  of  mine 
Gave  growth  to  blossom  so  divine. 

Ah,  yes,  I  know  that  now  I  love 
In  stronger,  deeper  fashion ; 

But  womanhood's  completest  love 
Is  mixed  with  tears  and  passion. 

The  vision  of  my  morning-tide 

Was  joy,  and  nothing  else  beside: 

A  dream  that  could  not  be  fulfilled 

By  mortal  love  or  lover. 
Look  not  so  sad,  my  own,  though  we 

Its  bliss  shall  not  recover, 
I  am  the  better  worth  thy  love 
For  that  past  vision  from  above  ! 


A   LITTLE   STORY 

Alone,  unwedded,  past  her  prime, 
Her  faded  face  still  wore  a  smile, 

As  if  some  secret,  sweet  and  dear, 

She  knew,  and  brooded  on  the  while — 

Some  hidden  joy  that  kept  life  fair, 

And  lifted  her  above  despair. 

Ah  me,  you  could  not  guess  the  dream 
She  cherished  in  her  maiden  heart. 

Once  to  have  voiced  it  would  have  been 
To  make  her  wintry  life-blood  start 

Up,  till  the  wrinkled  cheeks  aflame 

Glowed  with  a  virgin's  piteous  shame. 

Long  years  ago  she  loved,  and  then  — 
Who  knows? — he  died,  or  proved  untrue, 

And  so  she  lived  a  maiden  still. 
He  never  wed  who  rode  to  woo 
119 


A   LITTLE  STORY 

Through  soft  spring  mornings  long  ago, 
And  Time  had  blurred  her  ancient  woe. 

But  when  the  day  was  sunk  in  night, 

Close  by  the  embers  of  her  fire 
She  sat  and  rocked,  and  to  herself 

Feigned  that  she  had  her  heart's  desire. 
'T  was  then  that  on  her  withered  breast 
A  little  dream-child  took  its  rest. 

How  sweet  to  raise  a  quavering  voice, 

And  sing  a  tender  lullaby; 
To  feel  its  head  against  her  neck, 

And  softly  soothe  its  noiseless  cry ! 
It  made  her  life  so  bright  and  glad — 
That  little  child  she  might  have  had! 

Her  heart  was  full  of  motherhood; 

Its  yearnings  all  had  been  denied. 
She  fed  its  hunger  with  a  dream, 

And  smiled  where  others  might  have  sighed ; 
And  in  the  little  dream-child's  face 
A  likeness  vague  she  loved  to  trace. 


A  LITTLE   STORY  121 

Nay,  do  not  smile:  our  dreams  are  coarse, — 
Of  gold  or  fame  we  could  not  win, — 

Hers  was  divine  ;  I  love  to  think 
Of  that  bent  figure,  worn  and  thin, 

By  flickering  firelight,  wholly  blest, 

Holding  her  dream-child  on  her  breast. 

I  think  in  wondrous   Heaven,  where 

The  good  God  makes  our  hopes  come  true, 

He  may  give  back  my  love  to  me, 
He  may  give  back  your  youth  to  you. 

But  for  that  maiden  undefiled 

I  know  he  has  a  little  child. 


A   SONG   AT   TWILIGHT 

Lay  your  hand,  sweet  wife,  in  mine; 

Half  divine 

Was  the  love  of  long  ago. 
Dawn's  bright  hues  no  longer  glow, 
And  we  watch,  with  fading  sight, 

Day  turn  night. 

Sitting  here  at  twilight's  fall, 

I  recall 

All  our  days  of  changing  weather; 
How  we  met  black  care  together  — 
Fought  him  till  he  turned  to  fly, 

You  and  I. 


A    SONG  AT  TWILIGHT  123 

And  the  hours  of  glad  content 

We  have  spent ! 
Perfect  love  and  perfect  life, 
We  have  run  their  round,  sweet  wife, 
But  of  all  those  hours  so  blest, 

This  is  best. 

For  at  first,  ah,  well  we  knew 

We  were  two, 

Loving,  striving  still  to  mingle, 
Yet  how  oft  our  wills  were  single; 
Now  our  lives  are  almost  done  — 

We  are  one ! 


A   CHILD'S   QUESTIONS 

These  tears  because  he  's  gone  ?     You  really  care  ? 
Poor  little  woman  with  the  rumpled  hair, 
Look  at  the  toys  you  've  scattered  far  and  near, 
Play  and  forget  him  —  he  forgets,  my  dear. 

He  "loved  you,  too"?    He  "held  you  on  his  knee"? 
But  I  will  hold  you  closer,  darling,  see ! 
At  eight  years  old  such  griefs  soon  pass  away, 
And  by  to-morrow  you  '11  forget  to-day. 

"  But  why  don't  I  cry,  too,  since  he  would  go "  ? 

"  Beneath  your  head  what  makes  my  heart  beat  so  "  ? 
There  comes  a  time  when  all  one's  tears  are  shed, 
The  heart  throbs  out  the  agony  instead. 

You  "  do  not  understand  "  ?     Ah,  well,  my  dear, 
Some  day  you  '11  understand  it,  never  fear; 
Poor  woman-child,  who  yet  these  griefs  must  know, 
When  tears  come  not,  only  the  "  heart  beats  so." 


124 


TO    MY   DEAREST 

Couldst  thou  choose,  what  wouldst  thou, 

Babe  on  my  breast, 
Strife  for  fame  and  glory, 

Dreaming  that  best  ? 
T  is  the  life  of  an  ocean  wave, 

Forever  unrest. 

A  life  of  peace  and  quiet 

In  some  dim  land, 
Where  summer  seas  of  azure 

Wash  the  warm  strand  ? 
Such  lives,  like  placid  waters, 

All  stagnant  stand. 
125 


126  7"O  MY  DEAREST 

A  life  of  love  and  passion, 

All  strain  and  stress? 
Age  comes,  when  one  is  left 

Chilled,  comfortless, 
Unwarmed  by  the  remembrance 

Of  past  caress. 

Death,  ere  thou  know  life's  anguish  ? 

Yea,  that  is  best! 
Could  I  go  with  thee,  dear, 

Both  of  us  blest; 
But  if  that  may  not  be, 

Stay  on  my  breast ! 


THE   WORLD   AND   THE   POET 

The  knight  flung  in  the  mire  his  cloak, 
To  spare  a  queen's  small  feet; 

We  deal  in  velvets  for  rewards 
When  sovereigns  walk  the  street. 

The  poet  flung  his  cloak  so  that 
A  clown  might  pass  dry-shod, 

Forever  stained  his  singing-robe 
To  save  a  village  clod! 


127 


A   LITTLE    PARABLE 

I  made  the  cross  myself  whose  weight 

Was  later  laid  on  me. 
This  thought  is  torture  as  I  toil 

Up  life's  steep  Calvary. 

To  think  mine  own  hands  drove  the  nails! 

I  sang  a  merry  song, 
And  chose  the  heaviest  wood  I  had 

To  build  it  firm  and  strong. 

If  I  had  guessed  —  if  I  had  dreamed 

Its  weight  was  meant  for  me, 
I  should  have  made  a  lighter  cross 

To  bear  up  Calvary ! 


128 


SONG 

When  the  land  was  white  with  moonlight, 

And  the  air  was  sweet  with  May, 
I  was  so  glad  that  Love  would  last 
Forever  and  a  day. 

Now  the  fields  are  white  in  winter, 

And  dead  Love  laid  away; 
I  am  so  glad  Life  cannot  last 
Forever  and  a  day. 


129 


AT   NIGHT-TIME 

We  soothe  the  child  for  some  withholden  pleasure, 
Till  sweet  eyes  smile  that  were  so  fain  to  weep: 
"To-morrow  —  only  wait  until  to-morrow, 
After  you  sleep." 

So  we  are  soothed  with  solemn  dreams  of  heaven, 

When  earthly  days  no  further  solace  keep; 
Hope  tells  us  there  shall  be  a  happy  morrow 
After  we  sleep. 


130 


DEATH   AT   DAYBREAK 

I  shall  go  out  when  the  light  comes  in— 
There  lie  my  cast-off  form  and  face; 

I  shall  pass  Dawn  on  her  way  to  earth, 
As  I  seek  for  a  path  through  space. 

I  shall  go  out  when  the  light  comes  in; 

Would  I  might  take  one  ray  with  me! 
It  is  blackest  night  between  the  worlds, 

And  how  is  a  soul  to  see? 


THE   ETERNAL  JUSTICE 

Thank  God  that  God  shall  judge  my  soul,  not  man! 

I  marvel  when  they  say, 
"  Think  of  that  awful  Day 
No  pitying  fellow-sinner's  eyes  shall  scan 

With  tolerance  thy  soul, 

But  His  who  knows  the  whole, 
The  God  whom  all  men  own  is  wholly  just." 

Hold  thou  that  last  word  dear, 

And  live  untouched  by  fear. 
He  knows  with  what  strange  fires  He  mixed  this  dust. 

The  heritage  of  race, 

The  circumstance  and  place 
Which  make  us  what  we  are — were  from  His  hand, 

That  left  us,  faint  of  voice, 

Small  margin  for  a  choice. 
He  gave,  I  took :     Shall  I  not  fearless  stand  ? 


THE  ETERNAL  JUSTICE  133 

Hereditary  bent 

That  hedges  in  intent 
He  knows,  be  sure,  the  God  who  shaped  thy  brain. 

He  loves  the  souls  he  made; 

He  knows  his  own  hand  laid 
On  each  the  mark  of  some  ancestral  stain. 

Not  souls  severely  white, 

But  groping  for  more  light, 
Are  what  Eternal  Justice  here  demands. 

Fear  not;  He  made  thee  dust. 

Cling  to  that  sweet  word — "Just." 
All  's  well  with  thee  if  thou  art  in  just  hands 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DtJE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  PINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO   RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON   THE  DATE  DUE.   THE 


OERDUE 


SEVENTH 


OCT    9    1933 


10  1933 


,  w 

Songs  about  life, love 
and  death 


jtmssi 
ocf 


953 
A364 


396042 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


YC148159 


